


Linger

by BelieveMePlease



Series: everybody else is doing it, so why can't we? [1]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-16 06:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15431232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelieveMePlease/pseuds/BelieveMePlease
Summary: "It's just... doesn't it kind of repulse you? The idea of someone sticking their tongue down your throat?""It's not quite like that, Georgie,"~~~~~During the 2008 Four Nations tournament in France, the England U16 captain has a life lesson or two to teach their young fly half. They end up learning a lot more about themselves and each other than initially intended.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based (very) loosely on the lyrics to and story behind the song 'Linger' by The Cranberries -is worth a listen just because it's a great song, but not needed in order to get the gist of the story. This begins a few days after George's fifteenth birthday. Owen, sixteen, is the current captain of the U16 squad and in his second international season. The descriptions of the matches are based solely on the actual events of the real games (all those years ago), the rest is pure fiction.

**_England Under 16s 12 - 13 Wales Under 16s_ **

_England fall prey to their first defeat at under 16 level since 2003 despite having accumulated a 12-3 lead before halftime. Many are attributing the narrow loss to George Ford's astray conversion and two off direction penalty attempts along with captain Owen Farrell's too short penalty kick from the halfway line. This unusual turn of events is leading a lot of us to question, just what happened to England's star junior kickers?_

George scowls unhappily at his laptop as he skims his way through today's match report. Admittedly, it hadn't been his best match, and it definitely hadn't done his kicking percentage for the tournament any wonders. That said, it hadn't been any of the lad's greatest performances either and he doesn't see many of the others being run through the mud. Apart from Owen, and that was unusual. Honestly, George feels it's a bit strong to start questioning Owen's kicking abilities, the only attempt he'd made all match hadn't been far out of their own half and, although his boot is bigger than George's, he's no long range kicker by any means. The rest of the report seems pretty tepid, but George is already miffed by the early insult. It's fan written as well, not even the coaches or managers. Just who gets a kick out of questioning the sporting ability of fifteen and sixteen year old kids? To be honest, it's relatively sad that anyone would even be enough of a follower of junior rugby to actually write a match report, so George tries his best to shake it off. It's not too easy.

"Stop reading that shit," Owen is slumped on his own bed across the room, head still in his phone, texting as he talks. He's been doing that an awful lot this tournament and it has George intrigued; but if Owen does have a girlfriend, which George suspects he does, he clearly doesn't want to talk about it. Fair enough, but it does make George long for the closeness they had back in Harpenden. He wouldn't even have needed to be told, could've just borne witness to the progressions in Owen's life. Damn his parents for dragging him up to Yorkshire. "It's all rubbish anyway, I bet whoever wrote it weren't even there."

"Have you read it then?" George rolls his eyes. Only Owen would feel entitled enough to tell him not to do something he does himself. He's also probably the only one George would let get away with it. 

"No," Owen finally chucks his phone to the other end of his bed and swings his legs over the side so he's sitting up. George didn't realise he craved Owen's full attention so much until he feels a little weight lift from his downtrodden shoulders. "But it was all the same last season and I used to read them then. Never did me any good."

"Fine," George huffs, but doesn't exit the tab quite yet, "I just don't get it though. I know I had a pretty shit game, but they're coming for you too and all you did was miss a difficult kick."

"George," Owen scowls, giving a warning tone and raising an eyebrow until George eventually crumbles and gets rid of the tab. "I don't give a fuck what they wrote, and you shouldn't either. You didn't have a completely shit game, your kicking was a little off, but you didn't miss them all. Just focus on making it better for Sunday."

"Okay skipper," George smirks and Owen makes a point of lobbing one of his pillows at him for his cheek. George dodges it, only just, and laughs. It is true, though. Owen has slotted right into his role as captain and, not that he'd say it out loud, he revels in it; even struggles to come out of it sometimes, as displayed right now. George props the pillow that had been thrown his way up against the headboard next to him, an unspoken invitation for Owen to come over and join him; he wouldn't admit that he just wanted to steal Owen far away from that devilish phone. Or the potential love life keeping him occupied. 

"Fuck off," Owen reprimands, but stands nonetheless and makes his way to George's bed. It's a squeeze to fit them both on one single, especially with Owen's seemingly endless growing, but they manage. As usual, just as every night since they'd arrived in France, Owen seizes George's laptop, such a control freak, and hoards it to himself, "Film?"

He's already scrolling through George's collection of film downloads, so it seems he's asserted himself as the one making the decision regardless of George's answer, but he nods anyway. "What're you thinking?"

"Dunno," It's just a decoy and it hardly works, George nearly cackles as he watches Owen select Stardust...again. God, he is such a trashy sap. 

"Again, Faz, really?" George teases with a light laugh, but he doesn't really complain. Maybe Owen isn't the only sap. George chooses the familiarity of banter as a mask. "Got a little thing for Claire Danes, have we?" 

"Shut up," Owen mumbles, "At least I don't fancy Ben Barnes."

It's some attempt at a joke, but Owen isn't exactly wrong -not that he knows it- and George doesn't argue. Perhaps ignoring it all together is the best course of action, but George can't keep himself completely silent, needs to cover his flush. "It's a travesty that he didn't get the lead and you know it!" 

Owen just shakes his head with a smile and George decides to cut the conversation off before he makes a complete fool of himself. Instead he just wriggles a little to make his discontent known; he's a bit uncomfortable from where their bodies are pressed so tight, shoulder to shoulder, and the other side of him is shoved into the cold wall. Owen really is a lump. The laptop is left to procariously balance across their almost overlapping thighs as Owen drapes an arm over George's shoulder to alleviate the discomfort some amount.

Finally able to relax, George is hit with just how tired he is. Maybe it's only the effects of the earlier game, but something's telling him he's slightly drowsy within the affectionate bubble he and Owen have managed to encompass themselves in once again. They've stayed in contact well, but George had been so worried that moving away would put a rift between them that hadn't existed at home. Home. When he was younger, he would have probably chosen death over calling anywhere down south 'home', but it's amazing how things have changed. How people can influence those changes.

"I've missed you at home, y'know," Owen voices for him and it's amazing just how synced they sometimes seem to be. George is hit with a moment of irrational jealousy at Owen's propensity to still call it home and that actually be the case. He ignores it.   

It's not something they've openly discussed before, but then they don't really discuss much beyond the game anyway. Owen isn't alone in that feeling, though; George's heart has been aching for the closeness they'd lost until now. When George had found out about his international selection, he'd called Owen almost instantly, knowing he had been too. Phone calls weren't common between the two of them, settling to text the majority of the time and avoid the awkwardness of spoken interaction which they both tend to struggle with, but the smile that George could literally _hear_ in Owen's voice as he gave his congratulations had made any potential awkwardness feel worth it.

"Yeah me too," George is almost yawning already, not bothering to keep up with the film they've seen too many times anyway. "Yorkshire's shit."

The laugh Owen gives is almost musical in George's sleepy ears, "Yeah, it sounds it, mate." He doesn't try and keep the conversation going after that, quite happy to let George drift off as a dead weight against him, head falling to Owen's shoulder. The ease of physical proximity is new, but neither would hardly say they mind it.

~~~~~

George wishes he didn't know exactly how far through the film they are when he wakes up. It's a bit sad that he can tell from just one glimpse of the scene. Damn Owen for making him watch the blasted thing over and over again. Slowly, he twists his neck from side to side, remembering distantly that he was against Owen before he fell asleep, affirmed by the warmth still in steady emission. He sits up a little too quickly for his tired state to agree with, but stays pressed as close as he can without making it obvious, not wanting to lose the warmth. Not that they can really be much further apart in the tight confines of George's single bed.

"Sleep well?" Owen questions. The sly grin he has plastered all over his face makes George regret looking at him the instant he does.

"Nah not really, my pillow was hard as rocks," George quips back, flashing a sarcastic smile of his own.

Instead of replying, Owen just shakes his head happily and returns his focus back to the forgotten film. It's testament to the return of the bond they had built so carefully between themselves, one they'd both been yearning for. George tilts his head and lays it back on Owen's shoulder; they weren't often this cuddly when they had been back home, but George would be lying if he said he didn't wish they could have been. What is so surprising is the fact that Owen is so accepting of the contact, the instigator of the initial touch.

When George turns his attention back to the film his eyes widen slightly with glee and he almost wants to send Owen a smirk, waiting for a reaction to Yvaine dressed in nothing but a towel that he can tease. It doesn't come though, and George's ribbing smile falters before he can quite form it, questioning himself thoughtfully. It has no effect on him, and who is he to assume that it would on Owen -more importantly, _why_ is he assuming that it would? He wouldn't do that with anyone else, makes a point of not doing so. Come to think of it, that's all he's ever done with Owen, _assume,_ even the most fleeting of thoughts such as the notion that he might have a girlfriend back home. He thinks most of his guesses are  surely pretty accurate - he knows Owen, is fairly confident he knows him damn well enough.

Those thoughts are cut short, however, interrupted by the rather vulgar lip-locking suddenly occurring on the screen in front of him. George crinkles his nose a little, doesn't mean to blanch quite as physically as he does, practically flinching at the string of saliva he makes out between the two actors' mouths. It's a childish reaction, he knows, but he can't help the way it revolts him a little. Hadn't quite been expecting it the way he normally is with this film, mind wondering elsewhere.

Owen turns his attention down to him, looking at George as though he's gone slightly mad. Maybe he has. "What?" Owen laughs, the disgusted look on George's face too entertaining for him to contain it.

"Nothing!" George flushes faintly, drawing in on himself and raising his head from Owen's shoulder, suddenly even more embarrassed over his reaction now it had been acknowledged. The amused look Owen fixes him with shows he's less than satisfied with that response, keeps his stare strong until George crumbles with a sigh. "It's just... doesn't it kind of repulse you? The idea of someone sticking their tongue down your throat?"

That only makes Owen cackle harder, face going slightly red with the force of the gales. George thinks his face may be the mirror image, only for very different reasons. "It's not quite like that, Georgie," Owen eventually supplies, fits of laughter finally dying down.

"No I get that, but- wait," George cuts himself off, breath hitching a little as he fully registers the implication behind Owen's words, he's not sure why, "How would you know?"

"How d'you think I'd know?" It's light-hearted rather than defensive, relieves George a little that Owen doesn't feel he's crossing a line, reassurance that they're settling back into the ease of friendship they'd had before. Except, even under that, George can't quite conceal his shock at the implicative confession, can't quite pin down the reason for the sudden sting in his chest either.

"Oh," George's mouth drops open to form a small O as his brain manages to click all the pieces into place. The feeling is definitely a strange one. It hadn't hurt to presume Owen had someone back home, someone he would surely be doing all _that_ with, but an assumption can simply be brushed off as just that, easy enough to pretend it's not actually happening. Can't really do that anymore, "Oh right, yeah."

"Don't look too shocked then, eh, mate?" Owen laughs, mock offended by George's reaction.

A light blush spreads over George's cheeks and he has to avert his eyes. Thankfully, any sense of saliva has since disappeared from screen and George can return his attention back to the film he's seen too many times before. It falls quiet after that and it seems that Owen is more than happy to let the subject drop, glazing over George's apparent shock and ensuing embarrassment without a care and returning his own attention back to their evening entertainment. They don't speak another word to each other for the remaining span of the film, but George is chomping down on his lip with an anxious vigour, his mind shooting off in a million directions. He craves to know the intricacies, the details that lie beneath Owen's brazen statement, but wouldn't it be too weird to ask now? They may be falling back into familiarity, and a comfortable one at that, but the underpin of Owen's love life is something he's never known -didn't even know for sure that he had one until now. It's the rolling credits that finally have George saying _fuck it;_ if he doesn't ask now then he'll never know.

"What is it like then?" George quits the gentle chewing on his lip in favour of a hard bite to the inside of his cheek. Their previous conversation had been miles back into the film and George is merely praying that Owen remembers it well enough to avoid himself an awkward explanation.

"Hmm?" Owen hums in light confusion. He continues to shut down George's laptop for him and reaches down to slot it neatly under the bed, ready to be used again the next night, most likely for the very same reasons. "What's what like?"

George falters and tries to scramble for the justification he'd been hoping to avoid, "Y'know, like, what we were talking about earlier, like, with the... y'know?" He's gesturing wildly, scolds himself internally as he feels yet another blush begin to climb higher and higher up his neck. It's only then that he realises Owen is smirking slightly, a glint of mischief twinkling in the eye. George whacks him on the arm for good measure.

"You mean what's it like to have someone's tongue shoved down your throat? As you so eloquently put it."

"Yes!" George reacts before he can stop himself. The return of Owen's amused smile makes him regret his earlier childish exclamations even further. "Well, okay, I guess it's maybe not actually like that, but, just- _kissing_ , y'know?" Finally he manages to spit the word out. Perhaps it isn't as bad as it seems.

"There is a bit of that to be fair," Owen acknowledges. Dislodging the pillow from behind himself, Owen tosses it back to his own bed, hardly difficult to aim in the small confines of their room, and uses the newly freed up space to turn and face George fully, legs crossed as though he's settling in for a slumber party gossip session.

"Yeah?" George mirrors the position with ease, encourages Owen to continue.

"Yeah. Like, not fully down the throat, I don't even think that's possible," he pauses thoughtfully and George tries not to admonish himself further for the un-thought-out phrase that seems to have stuck as the key focus for their discussion. "But- well it can get a bit slobbery. Depending on the circumstances."

"Gross," this time George doesn't care. _Slobbery._ That is grim; he doesn't need experience to know that.

"Mate, when you're blind drunk in the middle of a party, you really don't care. And anyway, it's, like, passionate, y'know? It's not necessarily about just sucking face, it might be about sharing that moment with someone you like and who likes you." Owen seems so knowledgeable like this. Ever since they'd first met he always had taken on the older fraternal role: guided George through their friendship and their time as teammates, gave him tips on how to grab the attention of important scouts, introduced him to people on the U16 team and helped to form the bonds George now has with said teammates. Now he even coaches him as his captain. Sure, this conversation is more, dare George stereotype, teenage girl territory, but Owen still takes on his unavoidable leadership duties.

"What's it like then, then?" George cocks his head, genuinely intrigued, tacking on a further qualifier, "When it's not just a drunk thing."

Owen looks deep in thought for a moment, trying to find a way to describe the feeling, before a more wistful expression takes hold, "It's like, you can't properly explain it, but it's kind of just, like, blissful?" George's eyes track Owen's lips with every word, "Yeah, like, just really nice to share your feelings with someone physically -not even in a sexual way necessarily- just kind of lazy and happy. I dunno, like I said it's hard to explain it, but-"

Owen pauses, stares at the way George's own eyes are fixated on his mouth and smiles softly, skin prickling with excitement and nervousness at the idea that suddenly hits him.

"Come here."

George's eyes finally snap up, clocking the request more through his intense lip reading than actual sound. "What?"

Shifting so that he's up on his knees and seated on his heels, Owen reaches his arms out to George, hands beckoning him over with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, "Just... come here, I want to show you something. Trust me?"

How could George refuse that? If there is one thing he does, with his life, it's trust Owen. Slightly shakily, buzzing with confused anticipation, George once again moves to mirror Owen's position. He takes the hands that are outstretched to him in his own and shuffles even closer on the now even smaller seeming bed. When Owen opens his knees a little George does the same, allows Owen to slot said appendage in between his thighs and shivers when it presses ever so gently against his crotch. That's very new. It's very good.

He giggles nervously around the huff of air it omits from him in an attempt to cover it, but Owen just smiles warmly at him, and, God, if that doesn't turn George's insides to mush. Not that he has even a second to comprehend it, barely has time to realise as Owen leans in.

The press of Owen's lips against his own is coarse from chap and all too distinguishably teenage boy and George is all together far to shocked to do anything but _feel_ it in that moment. It takes the light squeeze of his hand in Owen's strong grip to finally get him grounded. Cautiously, he lets his own lips slide with the movement of Owen's, utterly enamoured with the feeling before it's gone all too soon.

As Owen pulls back, George can't help but follow him a few inches, distraught at the loss before he catches himself. Owen is grinning at him like a wild bobcat, but George notices with some smugness that his chest appears to be heaving just a heavily as George's own. For how chaste the kiss had been, both were entirely too affected.

"Is that-" George has to cough lightly to level his voice when he finally finds it, "Is that what it's like?"

The animalistic grin across Owen's face grows ever bigger and it has George trembling, a desire he hadn't known just moments earlier flourishing frenetically.

"Sometimes," Owen smirks with a shrug, but his movements counter his nonchalance. With precise ease he lifts their joint hands up to his shoulders and lets go, leaving George's arms to rest there heavily. Then, he finds George's waist in his now freed arms, hands splaying out one below the other on George's lower back. With the newfound leverage, he draws George impossibly closer until their chests are pressed tightly together, nose to nose as George is forced to look up at him, swallowing the gasp that threatens. "Sometimes it's more..."

Instead of finishing, Owen simply captures George's lips again, hoping that it'll portray his point better than any words could. This time, he pores everything he'd been trying, and failing, to describe earlier into the kiss. George really does gasp when he feels the wetness of Owen's tongue slip across his lips, something Owen is clearly happy to utilises as George soon feels the soft pressing of said tongue against his own. He's quick to tense; this is the part he'd been most weary of. Except, it isn't gross at all. George found with excitement that, if anything, he enjoys the sensation. Owen had been right, it was warm and happy, a feeling he hadn't even known he wanted so desperately.

Owen breaks away momentarily and George finds with slight self-horror that he almost outwardly whines. "Relax," Owen instructs against his lips and George does. He allows his hands to lazily find their way into the base of Owen's hair, drops his shoulders and follows willingly as Owen reconnects their dampened lips.

George has found an easy confidence by now, sliding his own tongue across Owen's lips, but allowing Owen to take control once more with defined leadership. With a small push, Owen has George dropped back against the wall, following without even a moment's disconnect. As Owen continues his endeavours, George tries to shift his legs to find a less awkward position, dislodging them from beneath himself and allows his thighs to squeeze around Owen's hips. It's a move obviously well received if the way Owen's teeth sink into George's bottom lip are anything to go by.

Despite his lack of angle, George is more determined to learn than ever, determined to prove to Owen that, yes, he wants this, fuck everything he said earlier. His hands, still at the base of Owen's scalp, drop back down over the front of his shoulders and grapple at his broad chest, fingers twitching with arousal at the feeling of the strong muscle beneath. It can't get much better than this, he thinks-

The knock on the door is quite possibly the most intrusive sound George has ever heard in his life. His hatred for whoever is behind it only growing when Owen has the sense to pull away, almost too far, but he seems to still and calm when he's only slightly retreated out of George's space. He must have had the relieving recollection that hotel room doors are always locked on the outside.

"Lights out boys!" George had never hated their coach before. Now he definitely does. Or maybe he just hates how Owen's captaincy has him obeying orders in a way George has never known him to before.

Retreating fully, Owen sends him a wordless wink before heading to the bathroom. Maybe George should be mad if that's all he gets, but he just can't help the way he is positively beaming. Having his first kiss hadn't been a prospect that had bothered him before, it could have stayed away as far as his previous opinions were concerned. But, damn, were all his previous thoughts so wrong. He'd been wrong about kissing and he'd been extremely wrong about Owen. No girlfriend and, seemingly, a habit for kissing boys. It appears they can relate to each other on even more levels than George had previously thought possible. Considering how long his eyes had been blissfully shut in the last few minutes, it's rather ironic just how much they've been opened.

It takes almost as long as Owen is in the bathroom for George to compose himself enough to so much as move from the spot he's been left in. His hands are shaking with giddiness as he pulls back his duvet to slip underneath. Taking a few deep breaths, George closes his eyes as he hears Owen come back into the room, more in an attempt to hide his state from Owen than out of actual fatigue. But he can't help the way his smile builds once again as the footsteps approach him rather than Owen's side of the room. By the time they cease, George can feel soft breaths beating against his face, tinged with a minty scent akin to the toothpaste they've taken to sharing.

When George opens his eyes, Owen's face is close to his own where he's crouched next to the bed with a smile that could challenge George's own.

"Hi," Owen whispers.

"Hey," George returns.

With the stroke of a thumb against George's temple, Owen is once again leaning in for the kiss, instigating perfectly, but giving George less than a second to respond before pulling back.

"That's what goodnight kisses are like."

George stares at him, bright eyed and longing as he stands and returns to his own bed, flicking the lights off on his way. In the dark, George can barely whisper:

"Goodnight, Faz,"

"'Night, Fordy."


	2. Chapter 2

The dread of what today would entail had been entirely forgotten in George's giddy bliss the night before. Only four days between matches meant the coaches had to make up their minds about starting orders very quickly and Friday, or dooms day as many of the lads had dubbed it, brought just that -same as Monday, which is just cruel.

When George wakes up, he's mortified to find himself sporting a dopey, lazy smile as a hangover from his sleep. Quickly, he glances across the room to the opposite bed in the hopes that Owen is still asleep and hasn't noticed. No such luck as he finds it glaringly empty. In fact, there's no other sound in the room which would suggest that Owen, ever the early bird, is already down at breakfast. Perfect -that at least gives George a little time to compose himself, figure out a course of action.

Brushing your teeth around a dazed smile isn't the easiest task, but George just can't seem to keep it under control.

By the time he's down at breakfast, George has made up his mind. Same as always, he'll find any group of lads, he won't avoid Owen, but he won't actively seek him out either. After all, they'd never said that last night had changed anything, it was just a kiss between friends -all Owen had said was that he wanted to 'show him something'. The last thing George wants is to come across as desperate and clingy after making out once.

Damn, he's impressed with his own maturity.

Clearly Owen isn't so bothered by appearances, however, when he marches straight to George and steals the seat next to him from whoever had just stood up to get more toast. George thinks he would normally stare at Owen like he'd gone completely mad, but he's enamoured. It's all he can do not to gaze at him like he hung the moon and stars. George is seriously starting to regret labelling Owen as a sap for something as meagre as the love of a film. This is way, way worse.

"Not avoiding me, are you?"

It takes George a moment to retreat far enough out of his own head to realise that Owen had said anything and he has to splutter an answer quickly, hashes it all up.

"No!" George looks slightly horrified as he struggles for words, "No, I was just-"

Owen is grinning at him so hard that George has to clench his fists to restrain himself from smacking him in front of the whole team and coaching staff. Cheeky bastard.

Before George can find any words of retort to replace the restrained physical assault, Gareth, their head coach is up from his seat and making his usual post-match morning announcement to the group. He confirms what they all already knew -that the line-up selections will be announced after dinner that night.

"Think you ought to be worried, Fordy?" George looks up from his orange juice when he hears his name. He'd only been looking down to avoid direct eye contact with Owen, he hadn't expected anyone else to bother him.

"Huh?"

It was Whybrow and he's smirking slimily. George always had got a bit of an off feeling about him and this particular interaction was sending a shudder down his spine. "After your kicking last match. I'd get used to the feel of that bench if I was you."

George is easily the youngest on the team -his fifteenth birthday had only been last week- and it makes him an obvious target as the victim of a lot of teasing. He supposes no one quite expects what happens next, especially if the looks on their faces is anything to go by. Perhaps they'd underestimated George's friendship with their captain.

"Shut your face, Whybrow," Owen practically snarls, "If I remember rightly, you were the one on the bench yesterday and I'll make sure it stays that way for Sunday if you don't watch it."  

At least it works, albeit it is the entire table that proceed to 'shut their faces', but Whybrow seems to listen to his captain and George doubts he'll try shit again. Not in front of Owen at least.

There's a warm hand that falls to caress the inside of George's thigh under the table; he looks up to where Owen is smiling invitingly at him. "Come on, we're kicking this morning. Let's get a head start, yeah? We both probably need it after yesterday."

"Yeah, okay," George gets up to follow obediently, reeling at the ease of Owen's intimate touch. He can't help the way he enjoys it.

~~~~~

Dinner rolls around quick enough, despite the day being mostly a long drag of rehab. George had been confined to the gym after the mornings kicking with Owen and while he still enjoyed it, it definitely wasn't his favourite part of training even if it was only light rehabilitation. His focus had been pretty off as well, the instructors often having to repeat things twice, or even three times on a couple of embarrassing occasions. It's fair to say his mind has definitely been elsewhere.

When he enters the dining hall this time, Owen spots him instantly,  makes a point of beckoning him over and, well, George isn't just going to ignore him. Especially not after Owen's teasing at breakfast, decides he won't be made a fool of again.

"Alright? How was the gym?" Owen asks when George sits down next to him with his plate. While they haven't been in their French camp long, George is sure Owen hasn't been quite so friendly with him before now. Looking out for George was one thing, but they'd still been finding their feet after meeting again, testing the waters for how the parameters of their friendship may have changed in their time spent only texting.

George only shrugs and focuses more on eating his food. The worry of the selection announcement is starting to play heavily on his mind. As much of a dick as Whybrow may have been trying to be, he hadn't exactly been wrong either. George's kicking had been way off against Wales and he's beginning to think that Gareth would be a fool not to bench him for Italy, rest him even.

"Talkative," Owen mocks with a smile, but he doesn't push things, recognising that George isn't in the mood for conversation. They can chat in their room later, either for celebrations or commiserations. 

George eats mostly in silence for the remainder of the meal, occasionally joining in with the rowdy conversations happening on the table around him. Owen seems happy enough to leave George alone, allowing him to witness externally the way the young captain interacts with other older players on the team. When they used to know each other, a 'lad's lad' is probably the last description George would have given him, but now there are definitely elements to his personality. They way he barks back retaliations to any banter thrown his way, laughs along with  obnoxious input when the conversation diverts into a grotesquely vulgar discussion about sex and girls. If he hadn't been so intent on quietly keeping his head down, George could have laughed out loud -if only they knew about the events of last night.

As much as the announcement is dreaded, George is almost thankful when Gareth speaks up, cutting off the chat that had started to make him shift with uncomfortable realisation. Owen was growing up -last night proved some of the experience George couldn't keep up with and he doesn't even want to know what some of these inspired comments imply about what else he might be sitting on.

"Right boys," Gareth starts once he's managed to get everyone quieted down. Quite an achievement in a room full of teenage rugby players, George thinks. "You know the drill by now -anyone can talk to me or your other coaches afterwards if they need. Don't make a big deal out of it if you do see anyone seeking us out."

Listening to his head coach read through the list of starting forwards has George more and more agitated with each name. Blindside, openside, number eight, scrum half...

George's breath hitches when Heathcote's name is read. It's nothing he hadn't been expecting, but he can't deny the way it hurts. When Owen's name is read at twelve, said centre reaches down under the table and winds his fingers through George's, squeezing his hand out of sight. George can't quite bring himself to squeeze back; he can practically feel Whybrow's smirk from across the room.

He stood to leave almost the second after Gareth has finished his round up speech along with a few others who are either also moping or just eager to get away. Owen looks up to him as soon as the warm hand was ripped away from his own, brow furrowing and cocking his head in question -he moves to stand and follow.

"See you later, yeah?" George speaks quickly, loud enough for their table to hear, enough that it would look out of place for Owen to stand and follow him now. In reality, he desperately wants Owen's company, wants someone to reassure him that it isn't the end of the world, but he knows he has to at least try and face this on his own for a bit. Owen just nods, but he does fix George with a look which assures him that they definitely will be talking about this later.

By the time George is back in his and Owen's shared room, it's all he can do to flop down on his bed with a sigh that's far too dramatic for anyone who's on their own. He really wants to mope, to sit and contemplate his form and his kicking and formulate ideas as to how he can improve it if he's lucky enough to be brought off the bench, how he can prove that he'll be worthy of starting against France on Wednesday. Except he's not going to do any of that and he knows he's not. Instead, he pulls his laptop out from where Owen had pushed it under the bed the night before. One more round of Stardust won't hurt.

~~~~~

The film is over by the time Owen returns to their room and George has taken to lying on his side, trying not to think about much in the hopes that sleep will take hold soon. Owen looks so caught between speech and silence as he stands with his back against the door as though he has what he wants to say right on the tip of his tongue, but he can't quite figure out the words that fit to it. George decides to cut his thinking time short, doesn't want the pity.

"If you want to watch your favourite film, you'll have to do it on your own tonight," he decides not to tell Owen it's because he's already watched it by himself.

Owen doesn't still doesn't say anything, but he does move at least, coming to sit at the head of George's bed, manoeuvring George so that he can cross his legs and bring George's head into his lap. "You alright?" He asks as he gets a hand in George's thick hair, not stroking or carding, just a strong, reassuring hold. George shrugs as best he can in his position. "Have you called your mum?"

"No," George sighs, "She'd make me tell my dad and I don't wanna do that yet."

"She might not," Owen assures, "I tell my mum everything that happens in this camp, everything the coaches say to me about my play, she doesn't make me tell my dad -knows what he's like. Could just ping her a text, that's what I always do."

_Of course_ it'd been his mum that Owen was always texting. Girlfriend? What the hell had George been thinking? He's starting to realise that he may not have known his friend anywhere near as well as he thought he did, is just glad that he's finally learning.

Deciding he can't be bothered with coherency, George merely grumbles, nuzzles his head into the inside of Owen's thigh. When Owen laughs, George can feel his breath on his face and turns his head to look up at him, consider the proximity. As it turns out, Owen's face is only inches above George's own and before he can cock his head in confusion, their lips have been pressed together lightly, the touch ending almost as quickly as it began.

"For comfort," Owen shrugs when George manages to mask his fluster with a questioning look, "They work for comfort too."

"Hate to break it to you, but I think I might be an exception to that rule," George crinkled his nose as he looks up at Owen still feeling overtly sorry for himself.

"Nah, you're not," George snorts at Owen's confidence, but doesn't argue when he gets pushed closer to the wall, watches as Owen lies down facing him. "Hi," Owen is grinning now, so close that their noses almost touch. He starts kissing George before he has the time to reply, light little touches that he teasingly pulls just far enough away from every time leaving George to chase his lips somewhat desperately.

His hand moves to a slip of exposed skin at George's hip, rubbing over the prominent bone with gentle fingers making George tremble. George slings his top leg over Owen's thighs in retaliation, dragging him in closer in faux fortitude with the hopes of a positive reaction and he isn't left disappointed. The hand that was being so tender on his hips changes in tenor so suddenly that it almost shocks George still, slipping around to the small of his back and gripping him so tight, drawing him impossibly closer.

This motion of impassion is not reflected in their kisses, however. While Owen does take the opportunity to deepen the kiss slightly, slides his tongue between George's lips, the underlying tempo of gentle comfort never falters.

When Owen breaks away further, George slips his fingers into his hair, strokes his thumbs through the shaggy strands gently.

"Working now?" Owen asks quietly. There's no smile on his face, none of the teasing George is so used to, just a look of genuine _care_ that has him feeling all warm and funny inside. Maybe this is what Owen meant last night - 'sharing that moment with someone you like and who likes you'.

"Yeah," George leans forward and places a short chaste on Owen's lips, the first one he's initiated, no matter how small. "It's working now."

He realises that this probably isn't the way his captain should be reassuring him after he's been benched. Owen should be telling him how he should focus on his game and his kicking, prove to the coaches in training that he should be used as a substitute on Sunday and using those minutes to prove his worth as a starter. George can't help but think that he much prefers this.

~~~~~

The next night, Owen still calls George over at dinner, forces him to get involved in the conversation a bit more until it once again sinks into the dreaded depths of girls and relationships. Why these boys can't think of anything better to talk about George doesn't know. He simply dips his head down while he eats, removes himself without actually having to leave. Owen does nothing of the sort.

"What the fuck is that?" Owen's obnoxious laughter brings George's attention back from an over-interest in his chicken. He doesn't know what was said or seen to cause Owen's entertainment, furrows his eyebrows as he tries to figure it out, finds Owen gesturing towards someone's neck. "How the hell did you get that out here? Been making trouble for the French lads' girlfriends, have we?"

The boy, Stuart George thinks his surname is -can't quite remember a first, doesn't seem flustered under the interrogation at all, just laughs along and even tips his head to the side to give the now peering eyes of the whole table a better look.

That's when George sees it, is surprised he ever could have missed it. The marks are angry and red and pretty huge if the way they trail all the way down under Stuart's t-shirt is anything to guess by. It looks as though it surely must be painful, or at least receiving them must have been. Although they don't look akin to the purple splotches you may endure after a match, George knows from experience that any bruise that angry brings with it an ache that can't be ignored.

"My girlfriend came to watch the Wales game; she was on holiday with her family in Paris," Stuart explains.

"Christ, a bit keen, wasn't she?" Owen practically cackles, but there's a glint in his eyes, a mischievous smirk he can't quite manage to hide. George wonders what menacing concoctions he's formulating inside his head. "She did know that we lost, yeah? Nothing to be impressed by."

Stuart shrugs, "Guess she felt sorry for me, wanted to make me feel better. Probably have you to thank for that, Fordy, all those missed kicks, y'know?"

George startles at being suddenly drawn into the conversation, only registers the way the words sting a moment later after getting over the shock. It's meant as a joke, supposed to do nothing but include him in a conversation he'd so obviously withdrawn from, but the attribution of blame upon him by his actual teammates hurts more than any poorly composed match report.

Everyone else seems to find it funny, all laughing happily. Even Owen's shoulders are shaking, George notices with a heavy heart. He'll have to compose himself quickly if he doesn't want to come across as an over-sensitive child.

"Well, you're welcome then," George gives a wry smile, must be convincing enough considering how Owen beams at his words, the mischief still hiding there. As much as he'd love to know just what's behind that, he has no intention on sticking around. George makes a mental note to ask Owen later after he's had the time to wallow that Owen had interrupted last night. "Anyway, as much as I love hearing about all your love lives, I'm knackered. See you all later."   

He gets a little longer to wallow tonight, Owen staying downstairs with the others for an extra hour or so. Clearly he isn't so worried about George's mental state and George appreciates the time alone that he's coming to realise you don't get much of in England camps, although he can't help the pleased feeling he gets when he finally hears Owen fumbling at the door.

"Love bites," Owen says the second he's through the door. George looks up from where he'd been texting his mum, taking Owen's advice about informing her of his benching.

"Excuse me?" George asks, amused at Owen's determined smile.

"Love bites," Owen repeats, "Sam has some, remember? They're next."

"Okay?" George draws the word out, mind toying with the implications of Owen's words, "So, you wanna -"

He doesn't get to finish the question, Owen striding towards his bed and seizing his lips interrupts him. The ensuing kiss is all tongue and teeth and nothing like the gentle introductory ones that Owen has treated him to so far. George thinks this explains just what Owen had meant by _slobbery_ and he struggles not to shudder at the thought, but manages to grapple at Owen's biceps for composure, keeps following his assertive lead.

Owen pushes him down into the mattress and pillows, gets a thigh in between George's thighs until his legs are forced to spread and Owen can settle in between them all the while licking into George's mouth, making a mess of both their saliva on George's cheeks and chin.

When he pulls back, George grins at him. How wrong he'd been when he thought this would be gross -any attention he may pay to that is completely overshadowed by the sheer heat of their exchange. Owen beams back, lifts a hand to cover George's mouth and swiftly wipe away any excess spit left on his face.

He takes a moment to admire George, who thinks he must look rather dishevelled, breathing heavily, chest heaving, lips pink and swollen from where Owen had bitten into them, eyes hazy and a little glazed over as he stares up into Owen's.

"Beautiful," Owen breathes before he ducks his head to George's neck, latches his mouth there instead.

"Owen," George gasps and brings his hands to clamp over Owen's back, eyes fluttering shut at the pressure on his neck, the feel of Owen's tongue lapping over his work. He's sure the look on his face is an embarrassing amount of pure pleasure as he sinks his own teeth into his bottom lip to cover the threatening moan, hooks his chin over Owen's shoulder.

"People -people will see it," George manages to breathe. He probably would have blushed at the sound of his own completely wrecked voice if he wasn't already fully flushed at Owen's ministrations.

"Don't care," Owen pulls back just to mutter it against George's skin, digging his teeth into the pink flesh momentarily before he returns to sucking over it.

Although all George want to do is give in and give himself over to Owen fully for him to do with as he wills, a small part of him is still nagging that they need to be sensible. "Please," it sounds far too much like begging and only seems to spur Owen on further, "Lower, please. Just a little bit."

The growl Owen emits almost makes him sound angry, but it couldn't fool George, especially not when he complies with George's pleas instantly. He leaves a short kiss over the tortured area before trailing down further, attacks George's trapezius and collarbone where any marks will be out of sight.

George really does moan at the assault on his clavicle, the sensitive nerves and muscles there reacting to Owen's touch, making him arch his back and dig his nails into Owen's shoulder blades. The onslaught of Owen's mouth is unrelenting from then, moving easily across George's whole shoulder, letting no spot go untouched and leaving burgundy marks in his wake. George is worried he'll be left as nothing but a babbling mess by the end, eternally glad that he's lead down under Owen's steady weight -feeling weak in the knees, he never would have been able to hold himself up.

His moans turn breathy quickly, barely able to get out whispers of Owen's name. Owen finally takes pity on him and releases George from the vice hold of his mouth and taking to leaving kisses over the emerging bites. Once again, he uses his hand to wipe the saliva away from George's skin while leaving soft kisses to his lips to distract from the part of kissing he knows George had been most sceptical about to begin with.

Owen reverses their positions then, rather awkwardly in the single bed, but he manages to get George safely atop of him until he has his hips straddled, his own bigger stature much more adept at holding the extra weight. They kiss for what feels like hours, until it has George's jaw screaming, but he still wouldn't wish it to end. When their coach calls for lights out, Owen does nothing but reach over and flick the bedside lamp off, grabs George's hips and guides him as they make out in the dark like the teenagers they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update, weekly as I'd hoped for. Hopefully this will put me on a good track for updating every Wednesday. Really hope you enjoyed this, comments from you would be lovely, I always adore hearing your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**_England Under 16s 12 - 3 Italy Under 17s_ **

_After an embarrassing last minute defeat to Wales last week, England U16s shake up their starting order and bring in a redeeming win. Following a kicking record of just one from four last match, fly half George Ford is seen benched in place of Tom Heathcote. Inside centre and captain Owen Farrell, who also missed an important long range penalty against Wales, redeemed himself spectacularly with a good individual effort scoring a try from 20 metres out._

In the morning, Owen stands smirking over George's shoulder as he examines the red splotches covering his shoulder in the bathroom mirror. There are a couple of pinpricks higher on his neck from where Owen had begun his endeavours, but George thinks they could be easily explained away as eczema or a rash if anyone were to ask.

He prepares himself to wince as he presses down on them, but finds himself surprised when they don't hurt, just sends a small shiver down his spine at the memory of last night. Owen takes this as the opportunity to come closer, puts his hands on George's waist from behind and dips his head to press a kiss to the marks he'd left. The intimacy of it makes George smile, something he's sure Owen sees in the reflection of the mirror, but he hardly thinks that matters when Owen was the instigator of such a gentle moment.

"Come on," Owen withdraws suddenly, holds a hand out to take George's. George quickly pulls his top over his head and takes the offered hand, isn't sure why considering they'll have to part as soon as they're out of their room; it feels worthwhile when he feels the warm weight of Owen's hand in his.

The coaches had set up a short captains run in Vienne for today which had meant an earlier wakeup call than usual. George was definitely regretting not letting Owen leave his bed until the small hours. Or maybe he wasn't. Even if he is now adorning a slight itch on his cheeks and top lip from the, albeit minimal, stubble that Owen had only recently started to shave.

Owen keeps a hold of his hand as they head down the hallway of the hotel, steers George towards the stairs instead of the lift they would usually take. The semi-public physical contact has George flustered and a little anxious, but he doesn't pull his hand free. He's sure they could laugh it off if anyone actually caught them, although he's not sure he would really want to. Maybe the fact that Owen hasn't made an effort to free himself either says he feels the same.

They do part just before they reach the bottom of the staircase, however, more a mutual decision that they better not push anything -would probably be stupid to.

Unfortunately, it seems that the alleviation of one source of anxiety only draws attention to another in George's mind as he suddenly become hyper aware of his neck when entering a room full of people other than himself and Owen. His shirt covers the best of the marks, although that light littering he had thought would likely go unnoticed are steadily beginning to feel like the darkest bruises he's ever had. Everyone had noticed that Sam kid's the night before and there was no girlfriend to explain his away.

He sits through the whole of breakfast with Owen's steady sly smile keeping his blush from relenting. No one notices, or at least no one mentions, anything adrift with the condition of his neck.

Chances are they won't really get to see each other for much of the rest of the day, they couldn't really be further apart in terms of their rankings within the team -Owen is a seasoned captain now, George could hardly compare as the new kid, barely old enough to be out of his U14 county team. Seems he's not wrong when Owen's attention, and presence, is instantly stolen away to the front of the bus with their coaches and other senior members while George slinks to the back with the other younger guys. It would be stupid to miss Owen when he's not even twenty feet away, really it would.   

 "You alright, Fordy?" George blinks at the use of the familiar name, shakes himself back into the reality he hadn't realised he'd slipped out of to find who the voice came from. He's nodding his head reassuringly before he even finds Jones looking at him inquisitively. "You look a bit out of it."

"Yeah I'm good," George coughs while his hand comes up to rub at his neck in an attempt to cover the miniscule evidence of his previous night's fiasco. "Just a bit tired, didn't get to sleep until late."

"Ah, Skips' snoring keeping you up was it?" Davies interrupts with a teasing smirk. George can't help but flash one of his own back -if only they knew.

"Something like that, yeah," George laughs. He lets the conversation around him fall into a gentle teasing of their captain before it inevitably settles around the upcoming events of the next two days, only joins in for short bursts he feels comfortable contributing to, but more or less just soaks up the team atmosphere.

"Some of the French lads I know from last season messaged me yesterday," Jones is saying, "Said that after their game, instead of a post-match dinner, the Italians basically threw them a massive house party in their hotel."

"Booze?" Stanley asks -of course _that's_ the first question anyone thinks to ask.

"Apparently; although that was obviously very hush, hush. Loads of fit Italian girls too, they said. The rugby support in their schools is huge, or something, and they're already on Easter break over there cause they're Catholic and stuff so a load of the players' mates travelled with the parents. I dunno, sounded pretty sick though." Jones would probably usually get scolded for colluding with an enemy in the French, but it seems his promises of potential girls and alcohol has everyone glazing over that detail.

"Damn," Stanley whistles lowly, "Do you think Gareth will let us go?"

George hopes not, he really, really hopes not. It's hard enough at times to interact and socialise with his own team, let alone another when they barely share a common language. And besides, he's really starting to get used to the evenings being just for him and Owen. They can hardly perform their latest nightly antics in a room full of people, especially not these people.

"Who knows. I doubt he'd be up for it straight off the bat, no," Jones looks thoughtful for a moment before turning his attention to George, "Hey Fordy, you think you can get Faz to put in a good word about it? If anyone's gonna convince Gareth it'll be him."

George pulls a face, "Why can't you talk to Faz?" It's snappy and maybe it's overcompensating. He is Owen's roommate after all and everyone knows they'd been friends before the tour, it probably makes the most sense that he should talk to him. Or maybe he just really wants every night to be a quiet one, just the two of them. Come to think of it, George really can't bear the thought of spending his post-match evening with anyone else.

The conversation turns pretty dead after that, no one quite sure how to react to their fly half's defensiveness. George should probably feel embarrassed, but he doesn't, simply fishes out his mp3 player and plugs himself away from the world.

~~~~~

Captains day turns out to be entirely knackering and they don't finish until well past dinnertime, end up eating sandwiches on the bus back from Vienne as a makeshift meal. George is almost falling asleep as soon as he gets his head settled against the window, is only kept awake by the constant vibrations of the moving vehicle. He's desperate for his bed by the time they reach their hotel, stumbles exhaustedly down the steps of the coach and sets off to follow the gaggle of players who are all heading off to their own rooms.

Even someone catching him on the shoulder doesn't quite break him out of his tired haze straight away, has to blink profusely at the person once he's turned to them in order to full recognise who it is, perks up slightly when he registers that it's Owen.

"Wait up for me, yeah? I have a few last things to talk to Gareth about for tomorrow, but I won't be long. Want some last minute good luck wishes from you." Owen winks and George can't figure out if he wants to laugh or cry. His body is screaming at him to go to sleep, but the promise of something similar to what they'd done over the last three nights seems too good an offer to turn down.

It seems, however, that his body does find it okay to turn down and George is left cursing himself when he blinks awake at two am to find Owen sleeping soundly in the bed across from him and himself with a painfully un-painful jaw. To make matters worse, it's at that point that all the anxieties for the match ahead decide to hit him full force and keep him tossing and turning as sleep continuously evades him. It's not too long later that his antics are interrupted by a loud sigh and the intrusive invasion of light into the room. George turns over from his (un)peaceful position staring at the wall and watches Owen leaning up on an elbow, one hand still hovering on the switch of the lamp while the other rubs tiredly at his eyes far too adorably.

"What's wrong?" Owen croaks, voice so riddled with sleep that George starts to feel guilty for waking him.

"Nothing," George tries, entirely unconvincingly, "Just... go back to sleep, yeah?"

Owen sighs once again and lies back down, but he does leave the lamp on which tells George he won't be getting out of this. Opening his arms, Owen cocks his neck a couple of times to motion George over. George is over there perhaps a little too quickly, but he's much too tired and anxious to be worried about seeming eager. He slips under Owen's duvet and revels in the warmth being radiated, ducks his head into Owen's chest when the arms are brought around to hold him. Almost instantly, George feels tired enough that he could fall asleep straight away, Owen's body comfy enough that it makes him drowsy.

"You didn't wait up," George groans unhappily at the disturbing sound, although he couldn't deny the way he enjoys the soft rumble of Owen's chest against his cheek as he speaks.

"Sorry," George mumbles blearily, nestling his cheek further, "Was too tired."

"It's okay," Owen drops a kiss to the crown of George's head, "Gave you a kiss when I got in anyway."

"Oh really?" George is sure Owen can feel his smile from where his face is resting against him, can't bring himself to care after Owen's gentle confession.

"Yeah, said I needed my good luck wishes, didn't I?" Owen runs his hands down to George's lower back, just about as far as they can reach, "That okay?"

"Hmm, I dunno," George teases with a smirk, finally tilting his head up to look at Owen, "Think I'm the one that needs the luck. Don't think Gareth is gonna use me, not unless Tom gets hurt."

"He will," Owen assures and leans down, presses his lips against George's, smiles into it when George slips his tongue between his lips and takes a slow lead for a moment, "Assertive," Owen admires, "I like it."

George giggles quietly into the kiss, lifts up until his full weight is resting on crossed forearms over Owen's pectorals. The confidence is new, and maybe George is just a little drunk on fatigue, but having the leverage is fun and feeling Owen shudder underneath the assault of his mouth is even better.

Owen lifts his hands to George's shoulders, squeezes the tense muscles there lightly before brushing his fingers over the marks on his trap, pressing down gently on the prominent bruising and soaking up the shivers that run down George's spine.

"We really need to sleep," Owen finally manages to pull back far enough to say, one hand coming up into George's hair in order to hold him off from his tirade. He smiles at the sight of George's disgruntled frown and places another soft kiss on the red lips in front of him to sooth, "This was good luck, but we'll do celebratory after we win tomorrow. Promise."

"Okay," George concedes, can't deny how tired he is anyway. He moves to relieve Owen from his weight and stand to return to his own bed, but instead he finds himself held firmly in place with a grip from the hand not in his hair tight around his hip bone.

Without a word, Owen manoeuvres George until he is back in his previous position, cheek flat to the broad chest beneath, and flicks the lamp off beside him. It can't have been all too comfortable, squeezed into a single bed with the weight of a whole other person on top of him, but Owen simply turns his head to the side and shuts his eyes to sleep once again. It's more care than Owen had shown in any kiss, more possessiveness than he'd given in any mark. Maybe it had just been friends fooling around before and maybe George is just too tired, but he can't help feeling that this, this is more.

~~~~~

They're 12-3 up at halftime, would be 12-0 if they hadn't given away that coach killer penalty in front of the posts, and George is gnawing on his bottom lip as he watches the second half start from the bench. This is the exact position they'd been in when they allowed themselves to lose to Wales four days ago, when his shoddy kicking had allowed them to lose. As much as he wants minutes, wants to prove himself, he's almost glad for the safe solace of the bench where he can be free from blame. Getting the call that they're subbing him on makes his stomach drop to the floor.

Then George sees Owen smile right at him as he jogs past a slightly limping Heathcote and heads straight for his captain in the mid-field.

Their hands brush together in a low high-five when they meet and Owen pats softly against George's abdomen a couple of times.

"We still got them, Fordy," Owen says determinedly in full captain mode, "Just focus, yeah? Don't worry about your kicking, it's all good."

Turns out they won't know if it's all good or not until the next game he plays. Despite effort from both teams, there's no more scoring for the rest of the game, although George doesn't really mind, is more just happy that they manage to obtain a win after such an embarrassing defeat on Thursday. Especially against a bigger, Under 17s team.

As it turns out, it's almost seven by the time they're all fully changed into their post-match dinner suits, all of them looking just a bit dishevelled from all the travelling, and Owen finally manages to get them into a changing room huddle after the coaches have left to sort out the team bus.

"Right lads," George wonders if it's wrong of him to find Owen's captain voice so attractive, "Gareth did eventually agree to this Italian party thing-" there is an eruption of celebrations amidst the team interrupting Owen's speech. George simply stares at him as though he's committed a betrayal worse than Judas. "But! There are some rules."

That's met by an embodiment of the groan George had been holding in moments earlier, one of the lads moaning, "Christ skips, you're turning into one of them."

"Just trying to keep my job," Owen flashes one of those smiles that makes George's knees feel a little bit wobblier than before. "So, no ruckuses, no scuffles with the Italian lads, no alcohol and we have to leave by eleven."

The groans only amplify at that, although no one actually objects to going which George finds disappointing. He just follows along with the rest of the group and finds his familiar window seat on the bus. Maybe if he falls asleep on the way there no one can bully him into actually going inside.

"This seat taken?" George looks up at the sudden interruption, smiles a little too brightly when he realises it's Owen.

"Sure you're allowed to sit back here, skipper?" George teases, but he still pulls his bag off the seat and drops it down in front of himself instead.

"Hmm," Owen hums with a smirk as he slots down. When he slings an arm around George's shoulders he deeply flushes and is quick to check around them, although anyone who's actually close seems far to intent on either conversation or trying to catch some quick sleep. "If I'm skipper then I'm pretty sure I can do what I want."

George scoffs at that, they both know that isn't even close to being the case, but he has too many things to confront Owen about to continue bantering. "Can't believe you agreed to talk Gareth into this fucking party. I really just wanted another quiet night in." He doesn't actually say what he means by that, but he's sure Owen can decipher by now.

"Yeah me too, believe me," Owen doesn't say what he means by that either, but George hopes he assumes correctly. "But- it's what the lads want, so I guess we have to suck it up."

"We could just wait here while the others go in?" George thinks he may sound as though he's pleading, doesn't care at this point.

"Don't be so boring, George!" Owen admonishes, "It'll be fine. You never know, you might even enjoy yourself."

By this time, Owen's hand has worked its way into George's hair and is massaging near his temple. This time, George doesn't care if anyone notices, he lays his head against Owen's shoulder and relaxes to the feel of warm finger tips rubbing at his scalp. If this is what he gets to return to at the end of the night, George figures he can handle a few hours.

~~~~~

George is bored. Out of his mind bored. Unashamed that Owen called him boring bored. The bus is waiting right outside in the car park, some of the lads have already disappeared off there to get some rest, and the promise of its quiet solace is getting harder and harder to resist by the minute. There isn't really anything to stick around for anyway, stuck in the corner of the room with a bottle of water with a group made up of the other younger boys who are too inexperienced or scared of getting in trouble to drink any of the forbidden alcohol that's making its way around.

It's not that George entirely hates these kind of events, he's been to a few house parties organised without the knowledge of school mate's parents, and while it's not really his scene he's not adverse to having a bit of fun while he's there. Only, right now he's tired and the only person he really wants to have fun with is off somewhere dancing with a group of annoyingly beautiful Italian girls and the dreaded dinnertime 'let's disrespect women while we brag about the sex we've never actually had' crew.

Not that George is jealous. Isn't the type for jealousy. Except, all he can think about is what he'd far rather be doing with Owen back in their hotel room and the idea that that isn't what Owen would rather be doing too is killing him inside just a little bit.

Screw it. All George wants to do is make out with Owen at the back of the bus while the only people on there are too asleep to notice, so that's what they're going to do, damn it.

"Alright Fordy?" Tom asks suddenly and George hadn't realised he'd actually been stood on his toes surveying the room like some kind of bird of prey, "Look like you've lost something."

 _Yeah, my jersey to you._ George thinks bitterly when he realises who he's talking to, but he plasters a smile over the top of it, doesn't think he could ever be that rude outwardly, no matter how much he might like to be.

"Good yeah," George assures, "Probably head back to the bus in a minute, actually. Might go find Faz first though, he said something about wanting to bunk off early too."

"Doubt he feels the same way now," Harry scoffs with a laugh and George cocks his head at him in confusion. Harry gestures to the opposite corner of the room, one that had clearly been missed it George's earlier scanning. "Christ, you think skips is gonna get lucky, or what?"

George chooses to block out that statement and the following laughter from the rest of the group, even if they hadn't been words that would make his heart ache the scene unfolding in front of him is more than enough.

Each one of that entire group of lads seems to have found a girl to dance with, probably the last ones those poor, unwitting ladies would actually want near them if they knew the way some of those guys talk about their gender. Even Sam, George notes with disgust, the one who is still covered in love bites from his girlfriend's visit, has his arm around a random girl's waist. All that is irrelevant, though, when George sees Owen.

He's dancing, quite badly, but freely like he's having the time of his life, head falling back in laughter now and then, clearly having had more than a few sips of the 'underground larger'. It would be a sight that should make George smile, it nearly does, until he sees her, sees her hand in Owen's, sees her dance closer and closer to him, every step making George feel sicker and sicker.

And when Owen raises their joint hands to his shoulders, George has to turn away. He recognises that move, recognises it from what they first did four nights ago. George couldn't watch him kiss someone else, thinks it might actually make him cry.

"Fordy?" It must look strange, the way he so suddenly turned his entire body around to face the other way for what anyone else would see as no apparent reason.

"Yeah, clearly he has changed his mind about bunking off early," his voice breaks at the end and George clamps his teeth down on his bottom lip before anything worse can happen, just prays the others registered the wobble as a laugh, "Guess I'll head off on my own then. Night!"

Running away would have been too weird, but George doesn't think he could walk any slower if he wanted to. The air in the room suddenly feels too short of oxygen, his collar and tie suddenly feels too tight, his eyes suddenly sting, but nowhere near as badly as his heart.

It's stupid, really stupid, he tells himself as he stumbles around to find his way to the bus. Owen isn't his, Owen never said he was his, he never asked Owen if he would be his, but George had been so sure he hadn't been alone in wanting more. Maybe he was just an idiot kid who got too hung up on his first kiss, fell to fast for the first person to show him any real attention. What can be real when you're fifteen, anyway? Or when you live three hours away from each other?

It's all logical thought really, the opposite of what you think heartbreak will do to you. George hates himself for crying, hates the sap that Owen has turned him into in just a few days, but that doesn't mean George doesn't cry the second he flings himself down at the back of the bus. Doesn't mean he doesn't put his head in his hands and sob quietly, surrounded only by a few sleeping bodies too many seats away from him to offer any comfort.

Doesn't mean he doesn't wish Owen was there to put his arms around him and hold him the way he had last night. The way that had made him so much like he had _belonged_ to Owen. George finds that his shoulder throbs almost as much as his heart.        


	4. Chapter 4

When George wakes up, it's to the feel of a thirteen stone nuisance throwing itself into his bed and latching itself around his body from behind. The mood he's in after the events of last night, he's in half a mind to roll over and shove Owen out of the minimal space and onto the floor. As it is, George isn't sure he trusts himself not to start crying and shouting were he to try and he's hardly going to pretend he doesn't still like the feeling of Owen spooning him -as angry as he may be and as much as he maybe shouldn't.

"What?" George grumbles, as stern as he can manage in his 'woke up only seconds ago' morning voice.

"Headache," Owen whines, clearly he hasn't picked up on George's agitation, especially not considering the way he presses a light kiss to George's shoulder and nuzzles into the area. "Don't let me drink again, Georgie, drinking is bad -very, very bad."

By the time they had finally left the Italian hotel last night, George had already been fast asleep at the back of the bus, the exhaustion of the match and the tears having sent him into a slumber he could not have been more thankful for. It had been their defence coach who had shaken him awake with a soft smile, probably just pleased with George for being one of the few with enough sense to have remained sober.

It almost made him smirk when he sauntered off the bus to be greeted with the scene of Gareth berating Owen for his poor role model behaviour. That would have been if just the sight of Owen hadn't made him feel teary all over again. George had rushed to his room and buried himself in his bed so quickly that he must have been long asleep by the time Owen had staggered in.

"How-" George coughs, but his voice remains quiet, fragile, small, "How much do you remember?"

"All of it," Owen answers quickly, nose rubbing the back of George's neck, arms squeezing tightly around his middle, "I didn't have that much it's just beer, it knocks my bloody hangovers sideways."

George can't decide if that's better or worse. So Owen hadn't been that drunk at all, but if he does remember it, he's not even mentioning it. The way Owen is cuddling him as though nothing had happened, as though they're some sort of happy couple suddenly makes George feel sick.

"Your own fault for drinking it then, isn't it?" George huffs, terse and rough. He rips his body free from Owen's lazy grasp, kicks the covers away from himself so he can scoot to the end of the bed and climb off. He doesn't even want to manoeuvre round Owen, doesn't want to look at him and see him somehow shocked at George's abrasive actions. How could he not know?

George grabs some training clothes out of his messy suitcase and heads to the bathroom swiftly to dress and get ready. When he emerges, Owen is clearly over any confusion at George's caustic behaviour, hasn't moved other than to nestle himself deeper into George's bed sheets, eyes closed again, scarcely even stirring when George wrenches the door open and practically slams it closed.

Since George didn't even play a full half of the match yesterday, he's allowed to rehabilitate and relax as he sees fit. Most of the other substitutes and those who hadn't been selected see this as an opportunity to do nothing more than go for a jog before trudging off to their rooms to lounge and mope the morning away. George does not do this. Forgetting the fact that it's selection day for the next match and he has a position to prove is still rightfully his, last night has left him with a lot of pent up energy that George knows from experience can only be burnt away through hours on the field or at least in the gym.

It's not George's favourite place to be, but the exercise bike offers time to lose himself in an album and an ache in his thighs to distract him.

Pairing up to use the bench press is a rule pretty strictly implemented by the coaches and gym staff. To be fair, it is one of the only ways to almost ensure that no injuries will come from cocky boys, at probably the cockiest stage of adolescence, overestimating their abilities. That doesn't mean that George doesn't scowl when Sam, hickeys on full display, comes and taps him on the shoulder.

"Come give us a hand will you, Fordy?" George merely blinks at him at first, earphones remaining stuck firmly in place, legs still pedalling steadily. The cheek of this guy. Sam rolls his eyes after a moment and tugs one of George's earphones out for him, "With the bench press? Give me a hand?"

"Sure, fine," George grumbles, dismounting the bike painfully slowly just to be annoying.

"So," Sam drew the word out in a way that told George this conversation was going to be a painful one, "You have a good time last night?"

"Not really," George realises it probably sounds a bit too petulant only after he says it, is quick to add on a qualification, "Was too tired to enjoy it really, left early."

"Yeah I thought you might of. Faz was looking for you for like an hour before we had to leave," George struggles not to smile at that, has to bite down on his lip as he takes the bar from Sam and sets it steady while he takes a break. There's no way a pleased reaction to that wouldn't look suspicious and he's still angry at Owen despite that. "Mind you, I'm fairly sure he was having pretty good time before that anyway, y'know?"

Sam's smirk makes George feel ill for the second time that morning. The words are a painful reminder as to just why George is upset and it leaves him floundering for a moment, desperate to bite back a distracting response. "Looked like you were having a _pretty good time_ yourself last I'd checked," George tries to restrain himself from forcing the weight back into Sam's hands, "Thought you had a girlfriend."

"I do," Sam laughs lightly, pumping a couple more reps before George is taking the weight again. Sam sits up and looks at him fully, "It was just dancing, Fordy, don't wind yourself up so tight."

George tries not to scoff, although Sam is looking at him as though he's slightly crazy, but that is just the attitude he should've come to expect from that group of boys. Maybe he shouldn't be so blind as to think Owen exempt from it.

"Anyway, cheers mate," Sam finally breaks the pause when he realises George has nothing left to say. Normally George would care if he'd made something awkward, can't bring himself to be bothered by this point, not for this guy. "I'm done here so I'm gonna head off now, unless you want me to...?"

At Sam's gesture to the weight, George quickly shakes his head. No, that's probably the last thing he wants. Sam nods and jogs away quickly and George doesn't think he's ever been more thankful to be left alone. Although he isn't the only one in the gym still, everyone else is focused enough on their own tasks not to take notice when George slumps down onto the bench and drops his head into his hands.

He wishes it had just been dancing. He wishes it hadn't even been dancing at all.

The afternoon training is a bit better for him. They're out on the pitch being much more hands on, much more in George's element. There's no Owen either, not after having played a full eighty minutes the day before. Definitely much more in George's element.

He's always been at his happiest on the pitch and today is no different. The last twelve hours have been a turbulence of emotion, but out on the field with a ball in his hand things are finally starting to feel like their falling back into place. Owen is finally the last thing on his mind.

The ball flows through his hands with ease, his passes almost always finding pinpoint precision, his runs have pace and his kicks are finally finding more targets than they're missing; even the few tackles he makes he gets praise for. For a blissful few hours his mind is clear, not worried about impressing his coaches or absent captain, just focused on losing himself in the sport he loves.

~~~~~

He's late for dinner. In fact, he's missed dinner, now he's missing nothing more than the uncivilised conversation that follows. George isn't sure if he really is just too tired to bother or if he's just trying too hard to avoid Owen; either way, the lull of a hot shower is too good to say goodbye to.

Forty minutes stood silent aside from the thumping of the shower pump and water on porcelain shouldn't be comforting. The feel of the gradually cooling water should be chilling, the amount of time spent with a hung head should be a strain in the neck, the way he scrubs his palm over his eyes over and over again should leave a painful rawness. It's a sad way to spend your time when your entire team is downstairs enjoying themselves. George is beyond willing to wallow in that sadness.

Less than a week ago he hadn't known he wanted Owen, hadn't known he wanted anything with anyone. Maybe it had been because he'd been running from labels, scared to call himself what deep down he knew he was, scared of the implications, scared of people knowing. But Owen knowing hadn't felt scary at all. George hadn't even had to say a word and Owen had known him better than he knew himself, had known exactly what George had wanted when George didn't even know himself.  

Perhaps that's what had hurt the most. It being a girl that Owen had kissed. Just when George had thought he'd found his best friend again, that they had drawn so much closer over this one similarity that put them in the exact same boat. That he'd found someone to confide in, someone who had unsheathed the truth from him.

It was a futile thought, though.

In reality, George's sadness, the betrayal he felt came down to nothing more than the simple fact of jealousy. Owen could have stood there and kissed anyone, any man, in this world, and George still would have sobbed himself to sleep like a baby.

They'd never talked about it, of course they hadn't, their tongues had been too tied together for the last week for words to come into it, and they were never going to be any good at the whole serious conversation thing, they'd never had to have been before.

George knows it's wrong to be so angry, knows it's not fair to expect Owen to be loyal to him when they hadn't established any ties, but he can't help it. He may get knocked about on a rugby pitch every week, deals with injuries and strains most people wouldn't even know you could get, but heartache isn't a pain he's used to and coping with it has flipped his emotions upside down. Maybe it's done the same to his sanity.

"George?" The knock on the bathroom door makes him jump out of his thoughts. He slips on the wet shower floor, clatters to the ground with a painfully loud bang and even more painful knock. "Are you okay?" The voice, Owen's voice George realises when he takes a moment, comes through panicked at the sound of the fall and George notices the door handle rattle, thanks God for the lock he'd remembered to click in place.

"Yeah I'm fine!" George winces as he rights himself, stands slowly and rubs at his lower back, settling under the shower spray to sooth himself.

"Can I come in?" Owen asks after a beat. George considers it for a second. He doesn't want to stop the fun he's been having with Owen, and he's fairly sure that had last night not happened he would have unlocked the door in heartbeat.

But last night had happened and all George can see is Owen squeezing that girls' hand as he drew it up to wind around his neck.

"What do you want?" George asks instead. He's tries not to sound too terse, but the images in his head inflict an anger into his voice that he can't prevent.

"Well," Owen sounds a little confused, as far as George can tell through the muffle of the door. George pinches the bridge of his nose. As big a part of him wants to let Owen through the door and have his way with him as much as another part wants to punch him in the gut. George can't decide if it's helping or making things worse that Owen doesn't even seem to know what he's done wrong. Even if wrong isn't quite the right word. "It's- Gareth is announcing the line up for Wednesday."

"Okay?" George sounds overly bitter and sarcastic even to his own ears, forces himself to rein it in just a touch, "Look, can you just tell me when you come to bed later? I'm not feeling great, I just want to go to bed." It's not a total lie, to be fair.

"Yeah," Owen sounds so deflated. A small part of George is glad. He realises that's wrong. "Yeah, okay. See you later then."

George doesn't bid his own farewell, just waits long enough to be sure that Owen has left to turn the now completely cold shower off.

He crawls into bed, still soggy and wrinkly from the water. Owen's pyjama bottoms are still lying on his pillow from where he'd fallen back to sleep in George's bed that morning. George plucks them out of the way, runs the fabric repeatedly through his fingers as he slouches down where they had previously been. He can't decide whether he wants clutch the fabric close to him or toss it across the room; falls asleep with it in his hands before his seesaw of emotions can make a decision.

~~~~~

Breakfast is practically empty at this time in the morning, but thanks to the earliest night George has had since he was seven, there was no way he could have fallen back to sleep.

A couple of other players are sat milling over their breakfasts, none of them sat together, the room is about as void as George feels at quarter past six in the morning. Blocking out the light chatter from the near full coaches table, George allows himself to relax in the quiet. It is just busy enough that he can't upset himself in the depths of his thoughts again, empty enough that the pressures of social anxiety are unable to prevail.

"Hello George," So much for the peace and quiet. George turns his head slowly, fully ready to glare at whichever member of his team has disturbed him during his lonely solitude.

Gareth is adorning a friendly smile, even drops a hand to George's shoulder when he gets his attention. George falters immediately, straightens his expression out to match that of his head coach as best as he can. He's pretty certain that he's failed miserably when Gareth lets out a light chuckle and takes the seat next to him.

"We missed you at dinner yesterday," George isn't sure if it's concern or reprimand or simply a passing comment. It doesn't sound particularly like any of the three possibilities, but then, George isn't particularly confident in his own ability to read social situations completely correctly.

"Sorry sir," surely an apology is the right way to go with it, "I wasn't feeling great so I got a really early night."

"Oh?" Gareth still isn't giving much away and George is screaming out for any signal that will help him read the situation. He can't remember the last time, if ever, that he had a one-on-one conversation with his head coach and George is drowning with how far out of his comfort zone he feels. It's been over twenty four hours since George has had any desire to even see Owen, now he's praying to every entity that he'll waltz in through the doors and guide George the way he's always been so good at.

The silence drags on a little too long not to be awkward and George is starting to become certain that Gareth expects him to expand on his explanation. He rubs the back of his neck, catches the first bead of nervous sweat as he searches desperately for one. This shouldn't be so difficult.

"Yeah, sorry," George coughs, "Um, I guess I tired myself out in training."

"Well you did work very hard, I was impressed," Gareth widens his smile enough that George can finally breathe a sigh of relief at the assurance that he's not under scrutiny. He even glows under the light praise just a touch. "Are you sure you're going to be feeling well enough for the match tomorrow if you're under the weather, though?"

"Yes sir, I was just tired I feel fine now," George pauses as his mind has time to fully interpret his coach's words, "Sorry sir, does- does this mean I'm definitely playing tomorrow?"

"Of course, George," Gareth looks at him a little confused, "You're my starting ten. I asked Owen to tell you when he went to bed, did he not?"

"No, I think I was already asleep when he came in, I didn't hear him at least," George blushes just a little at Gareth's amused smile. Owen must have come back pretty early then. "Thank you for the opportunity, though, sir. Sorry again that I missed dinner."

"That's quite alright, son. We figured that after your performance as a substitute and in training yesterday, you've definitely earned your spot back. Also, with your dad coming over to watch this game it felt right to put you back as a starter."

George had almost completely forgotten about his dad's intended visit for the final game, almost wants to role his eyes when Gareth reminds him. Of course their decision had been swayed by the desire to appease the senior England defence coach. Perhaps the whole fiasco with Owen has made him too wary, but George struggles to believe that his own effort to prove his worth have been noted at all.

Gareth leaves him with a light pat on the shoulder and George turns back to his breakfast to glower. He probably ought to trust Gareth's decision making processes, he is a seasoned professional after all, but the last two days have left him jumpy and flinching at every turn. If he's going to play well in front of his dad, if he's going to impress any U18 squad scouts there may be, he needs to get himself under control. Only, he can't seem to shake things with Owen from his head.

"He told you about tomorrow then?" For a second George thinks Owen has snuck up on him, that his long attempts at evasion have finally come to end; he's surprised when it's Tom that sits down across from him. Just goes to show how on edge he's been.

"Yeah," George smiles warmly. As much of a rival as Tom may be, he seems like a nice enough guy and he's been nothing but kind to George for the entire camp. George had just been too wrapped up in things to see past the bitterness when their jerseys' had been swapped. "Sorry about that, mate."

Tom shrugs, "You deserve more, as much as it pains me to say it."

"What makes you say that? Did you see my kicking against Wales?" George blanches at the memory.

"Well yeah," Tom rolls his eyes playfully, "But I also saw it in training yesterday and it's better than mine. We all have bad days, even the kids of league legends."

"Thanks mate," George says earnestly. He can't help feeling touched at Tom's modesty. The last time they'd communicated at all, on that Godforsaken night, George had barely shown him enough decency to give his concern for him the time of day. Now he's left wishing that he had.

"I am on the bench, though, so watch out."

They both laugh and George feels his tension start to dissipate. Honestly, it's nice to have someone to talk to that isn't just Owen or a group of lads he's inflicted himself upon in the captain's absence.

"Confident, you're going to get used then? Only seven out of eleven can be, remember?" George sing-songs. This conversation and the one with Gareth previously couldn't be further apart, George is already smiling as he reads each cue with ease, allows himself to slip into a comfortable banter.

"Only if your kicking's naff again," Tom smirks and George laughs.

Just maybe, if Owen reaches the U18 selection next season, it won't be so bad if George doesn't follow. Just maybe George doesn't need him the way he'd thought he so desperately did.

~~~~~

The captain's run today is shorter than the last one had been and, although they still have to eat a makeshift dinner on the coach, George doesn't have to exhaustedly drag himself into the hotel lift, even has enough energy for a shower.

When he leaves the bathroom, Owen is lounging lazily on his bed in his pyjama bottoms. George is suddenly very glad that he'd put his short on before walking blindly naked into the bedroom.

Owen is on his phone, probably texting his mum about the advances in his love life. George tries to be bitter at the unlikely thought, but he gets stuck on the image in front of him, can't quite force his mind away from the word _wow._

His hair is wet, but not just sweat from the training, so he must have used another pair's shower, and it leaves it hanging loose and even longer than its usual shagginess. It's close enough to his shoulder's now that a few drops of water have fallen free from the ends and adorn his skin, pale from the early spring chill, like perfect droplets ready to cascade down to his firm pectorals or even to his abs. Prominent abs, closely rippled at the poor posture of his position, but showing no hindrance to their obvious firmness. They show a strength that most other boys of sixteen only dream of having, not just a flash of muscle from where the body is so slim that the skin grips too close to the flesh underneath. A strength that follows down to the thighs, thighs George knows can hold his entire body weight for hours while they occupy themselves with-

"Gareth talked to you then," Owen doesn't look up from his phone to talk, fingers still tapping furiously as they search out the correct letters on the number pad.

George can only blink for a few moments, it takes him long enough to tear his eyes away from the thighs he'd been so busy admiring. "Yeah," he finally mumbles, "Told me I'm starting tomorrow, as you know."

Finally finishing off the text, Owen chucks his phone to the side and looks up at George with a grin. George realises then that he hasn't looked Owen in the eye for two days. He could get lost in that blue if he's not careful. Gets lost in too many other thoughts when Owen outstretches open arms.

"Come here," Owen requests, still smiling, "I want a cuddle."

George hesitates. It's probably not a good idea. But he can't keep himself angry or upset, he's missed Owen terribly and he didn't even realise it.

"Come on, I feel like I haven't seen you for days," Owen encourages when George's hesitation drags on a little and that's enough to break him.

He carefully keeps his face away from Owen's so there can be no instigation, although Owen does drop a light kiss to the top of his head when he settles onto Owen's chest. It's comfortably warm and the steady rhythm of Owen's heart right beneath George's ear is lulling. George can't help thinking that he couldn't give this up, doesn't know how he's managed it the last few days.

"You deserve it," The rumble of Owen's voice in his chest sways George out of the comfortable relaxation, "You've worked really hard."

He sounds more like a captain than he has speaking to George alone in days and George wonders if he's picked up on the angst he's been steadily emitting, if his avoidance of Owen has been too blatant. He feels hurt by Owen, but he isn't positive that he really has the right to feel that way, and he doesn't want to make Owen feel the same way.

"Might just be because the coaches want to keep my dad happy," George sighs, "I forgot he was coming. He text me earlier when he landed."

"It's not," Owen sounds as confident as ever and George glances up at him just soak in the determined expression, try to steal some of it for himself, "It's because of how hard you've worked. Trust me, Georgie, you've earned this."

George smiles against Owen's chest, but his mind is wondering far off topic. His mind is that same seesaw off emotions that he can't seem to escape and now that he's being held by Owen in this way again, he feel like he's swaying. He needs to know.

"Do you like girls?"

Owen pulls back, George thinks he must be staring at him completely bemused, confused. George stays resting sideways on Owen's chest, hiding the embarrassment, stopping himself from waving from the question and latching on to Owen's lips until they both forget he asked it.

"I-," Owen stutters for a moment, George can't blame him for that, "I guess so?"

"Yeah?" George pushes. They're not used to talking like this, but maybe the need to be.

"Well- yeah, I suppose," Owen sounds about as confused about himself as George feels. Two confused kids in a mess of emotions. "I just kind of like who I like. I dunno, I don't really think about if they're a boy or a girl or none of the above, just... yeah?"

"So, are you, like, bisexual?" George sounds the word out carefully, considers it, considers if it's his place to ask a question like that. He figures, with the position they're laying in, he could probably ask Owen just about anything and it not be off limits.

George feels the shrug as Owen moves his shoulders, "I dunno. If that makes me bisexual then yeah I suppose that's what I am. I don't really feel like I should have to put a label on it, though."

"Sorry," George mutters, figuring he's made Owen uncomfortable. The serious nature of the conversation is not something they've ever done before and George didn't really consider that that may put Owen off as much as the subject matter.

"No, it's okay I didn't mean it like that," Owen rubs his hands up George's mid back slowly, "I just mean- I don't really think I fit a label, or if I do I don't know what it is so I just don't try and define it. Like I said, I just like who I like, their gender is probably the last thing I think about."

A moment passes where George wonders if that could be him, if there's no label to define him either or if he just doesn't know it yet. Deep down he doesn't think that's true, he thinks there's a perfectly fitting label staring him in the face and that he's just too scared to wear it.

"What about you?" Owen asks after a beat of silence when it becomes apparent that George doesn't have a response, "Do you like girls, or?"

When Owen says it, George thinks the question sounds so backwards that he almost laughs. If they were anyone else they'd surely be asking each other if they liked boys not girls; trust them to be different.

Slowly, he shakes his head. It's the closest to acceptance that he's ever made it and a small part of him is beaming with pride.

"No?"

"No," George sighs, it feels like a relief. He thought knowing that Owen likes girls as well would make it harder to open up to him, George finds it's the complete opposite. "No, vaginas are scary."

Owen laughs, strong and hearty and the vibrations of it in his chest feel good against George's skin, "Good reasoning there, you're not wrong."

George smiles to himself and huffs out a short laugh of his own. He still feels sad, but this is progress to knowing where he and Owen stand, they can work up to that.

"When you," George swallows, gathering his words, "When you kissed me -the first time- how did you know? How did you know that I would want to? With you -with a guy."

"I didn't," Owen shrugs again and George is reminded of that endless flow of confidence that Owen exuberates, he hadn't needed to be sure, rejection hadn't been an issue. "Okay well, I didn't _know_ , but-" He tails off, sounds as though he doesn't know if he should continue.

"But?" George encourages, intrigued at what Owen possibly could have assumed.

"There was that guy at St George's while you were there. The year eleven in the Firsts team who used to coach us from time-to-time. Jack? Or Joe, or something?"

"James," George remembers suddenly, smiling. Of course that's how Owen had known.

"Yeah, James. You fancied him, right? Like, I was so sure you fancied him, but I didn't want to ask, since, y'know?"

"Yeah, I did fancy him," George is blushing hard now, is certain Owen can feel the heat from his cheek against his bare chest, "Like, a _lot,_ but- he was really hot, right?"

"George he's fucking Greek God," Owen laughs, "To be fair, you fancying him probably wasn't the best point of reference, I think half the straight guys on the team had the same thoughts."

"Yeah," George laughs along lightly, but he's starting to lose himself to his thoughts again. This feels so nice with Owen, feels different to fancying someone the way he had that guy at St George's. It feels like _feelings_ , as scary as that is to admit, but it's true and that brings with it the waves of overwhelming sadness as he remembers the event's of Sunday night. He wants to bring it up, wants to talk to Owen and ask where they stand, ask him _why,_ but he can't.

"So," Owen fills the silence again. For someone who couldn't bare awkwardness just a week before, George has become quite adept at not even realising when it's there. "No girls, but, are you like me? No label for it, or?"

George thinks Owen knows perfectly well what the label for it is. Maybe he is pushing and maybe it shouldn't be his place to, but George can't help wanting to go with it, wanting to feel freer. So he shakes his head.

"I think-" George pauses. No, he doesn't think, he knows, wants Owen to know too. "I'm, well, I know I'm- I'm gay."

Owen leans he's head down to lean against the top of George's and George can feel his smile when he drops a kiss against it.

"Cool," he says simply and it's just about perfect. So simple yet so accepting; George feels like the weight of the world is lifted from his shoulders.

He hadn't been wrong before, he still doesn't think he needs Owen the way he had thought he so desperately did. But he wants him. He wants him so much.

And the thought that Owen doesn't want him in the same way burns like a fire in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit unwell, so I apologise if this isn't my best work, but I still wanted to get it written for you. It's a bit longer than I intended in my attempts to do it justice, so I hope it delivered. Thank you so much to those of you who have commented, I love to hear from all of you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I so nearly made every update on time! I'm sorry this is late, I had to switch around my day off this week so I couldn't get this finished yesterday. I hope it was worth the wait.

**_France Under 17s 24 - 24 England Under 16s_ **

_England Under 16s finish their Four Nations effort with a draw to the home side. There's little to be said of captain Owen Farrell who finishes a landmark two international seasons with the hopes of moving on to the Under 18 side later this year. The inside centre and captain had a game consisting of a few blunders, but mostly decent play leaving nothing to marvel after such a promising performance against Italy. However, his ex-school mate, and occasional fly half rival, George Ford gives a redeeming display after being dropped to the bench in the previous match. Watched by senior England defence coach and father, Mike, Ford displayed precision and class when he put Edgerley in the left corner for a try before going on to convert another try, this time by Lewington._

Once again, George is up early, although this time it's the twitching energy that rouses him. Opening up to Owen last night had been such a concoction of nervous relief, coupled with the anticipation of the match later today and George is blinking awake with far less sleep than he would have liked and an ache in his neck where it had been twisted sideways to rest on Owen's chest all night. He can't quite recall at which point in their conversation he had drifted off, knows he had been thinking about what a sensible idea it would be to retreat to his own bed. Shame that Owen is quite so adept at giving cozy, sleepy cuddles.

George peels himself out of Owen's grasp slowly, careful not to wake him earlier than necessary, and wonders to the bathroom while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It's probably a bad idea not to try and get at least a few minutes more sleep on a match day, but the butterflies buzzing in George's tummy would only have him tossing and turning.

He's dressed, ready and back from breakfast by the time Owen wakes up. The shower pump is thumping loudly when George gets back to their shared room giving him a few moments of peace to go about packing up his kit bag. He's precise and neat about these sorts of things, superstitious that if his socks aren't folded in a certain way he'll have worse luck than usual on the pitch. It's leagues apart from Owen's haphazard 'that'll do' approach to slinging essentials into a bag, not bothering to check if he's missed anything.

"Morning," George looks round to be greeted with the, rather glorious, sight of a very -half- naked Owen walking out the bathroom. George wants to slap himself for the way his mouth waters.

"Hey," Owen grins at him and George has to turn around, pays intense attention to zipping up his kit bag. It's a futile attempt to divert his focus and Owen is quick to crowd him from behind, digs his chin into George's clavicle.

"You ready for today?" Owen presses his lips to George's cheek as he speaks, makes it obvious what he's searching for. They haven't kissed properly in days and George is missing it badly. He's certain now that he can't really be angry at Owen; they never talked about what they are and that's both their faults.

"Guess so," George links one of his hands through Owen's. Owen squeezes.

"We're gonna smash 'em," Owen turns George around to face him, smiles cockily.

"Yeah," George holds his breath for a second, considers their proximity. Owen leans forward.

George wants it, he wants it so much. He's missed the feel of Owen's lips on his, missed the way it makes him feel. Everything he'd been apprehensive about is everything he's learnt to love about being with Owen, but he loves the other things too: loves the way they cuddle when they're too tired to kiss anymore, loves the way they're happy to squeeze into one single bed all night just to share space, loves feeling like he can finally open up to someone, loves that Owen is the only one who knows his deepest secret, loves everything that makes them a couple. Except they're not a couple, and Owen is so unbothered about whatever they are that he remorselessly kissed someone else. Suddenly all George can see is that girl. That girl and Owen, together.

It's so last second, too last second not to seem weird, intentional, but George swerves. He ducks his head into Owen's chest, wraps his arms around his waist and squeezes tightly, waits the painful few moments it takes for Owen to return the hug. George is just glad he can't see the look of shock on Owen's face.

"We need to go," George mumbles against Owen's bare skin, tries not to get caught up on the warmth he emits. "And you need to pack. I'll leave you to it."

He smiles awkwardly at Owen as he backs away, knows how forced it must look, but at least he can tell himself he tried. Owen does look confused, looks too much like he's about to start asking questions, so George picks up pace.

"Don't want to be late," George tries weakly, picking up his bag, "Not when I just got my place back."

He's already out the door, already jogging down to catch the bus. Why he can't handle his emotions, George doesn't know. He's never felt anything like this before, it's all too new and too painful. If Owen had told him before he'd stolen his first kiss that he'd end up feeling like the protagonist in a bad teen rom-com with an unhappy ending then he'd never have let him near in the first place. Except George still can't say that he regrets a thing. Maybe he's naive not to, maybe it's him still reaching for things to work out and them to live happily ever after even though it's impossible. He hates what Owen has turned him into, loves everything he's shown him. George finds it's too hard to even think straight in such a turbulence of emotion.

He finds his same seat at the back of the bus that he's become used to. Perhaps it's just because it's as far away from Owen and all the confusion he brings as George can get in the confined space.

"Alright Fordy?" Tom slots in next to him with a smile. It's new, but a welcome new.

"Not too bad," George lies with a smile to match, "Ready to win again, though, want to end on a high."

"You got that right. You're dad here or?"

George nods his head, "Said he'd meet me there and come wish us good luck. I apologise in advance for whatever shit speech he'll inevitably try and prep us with; I don't think he knows where his job stops and starts sometimes."

Tom laughs and George smiles at the ease of things. It might be a little unconventional to make such good friends with your biggest rival, but he and Owen have always been at least a bit competitive for the number ten jersey and just look at them.

George pauses before he can form the thought 'more than friends'. No, they're not. They're just friends. Friends who kiss a lot. Or used to kiss a lot, George doesn't even know.

"I doubt anyone is gonna mind an actual England coach giving us tips," George tunes back into what Tom is saying before he can get himself upset, "Even if it is embarrassing for you."

"Eh, I suppose he's not so bad. At least he actually knows what he's talking about... most of the time." George enjoys the way the conversation flows, likes the banter and how they make each other laugh. He's glad he's found a real friend in the squad beyond Owen, didn't realise how much he was going to need one until now.

They talk for the entire forty five minute drive from their camp in Bourgoin to the stadium in Lyon. It's easy and it's nice. They part ways as they depart and George is left feeling happy and ready for the match in a way he hadn't thought he would be after his awkward encounter with Owen earlier. An encounter that seems persistent in wanting to repeat itself.

Owen catches his shoulder as they gather outside the bus for a quick headcount register. George feels an anxiety pick up in his chest at the look Owen gives him when he turns to face him, an almost carbon copy of the look he'd left him with as he'd fled from their room.

"What was all that about earlier?" Owen narrows his eyes slightly.

George panics momentarily, searches his head for any answer that isn't the truth. After their open talk last night, George is beginning to gain a little bit of confidence that they can work up to that chat, that he can prepare himself to handle an actual spoken rejection. On the curb surrounded by the entire team, however, is definitely not the right time or place.

"What do you mean?" George feigns ignorance thinking it's his best shot. It's not played off well, but it'll do.

Owen stares at him as though George is the most complex algebra problem he's ever seen, like it would be impossible for him to figure out what to say first.

"George!" George honestly thanks God for the sound of Gareth's voice at that moment, certain that only devein intervention could have made his timing so perfect. He gives Owen an apologetic look despite himself and spins round to find where he's being called to. Owen reaches out to touch his hip just as George is waving back at where his dad and Gareth are standing together, squeezes when George moves to leave.

"I'll see you later, yeah?" George spares Owen another look, brushes their fingers together on his hipbone discreetly before he's jogging off for the second time today. He breathes in a proper breath of air when he's finally far enough away to feel released from the tension, anxiety gradually dissipating as he nears his dad.

They greet each other with a brief hug and Mike ruffles his hair, puts an arm around his shoulders. George blushes an pulls away with an embarrassed smile.

"You glad to be starting again this week, Georgie?" They haven't really talked about how he was benched last week; George had asked his mum to tell him before the game and he'd only received a curt congratulatory message after the game. He knows his dad wouldn't really be cross with him for it, especially since he's been chosen to start again already, and it's one of the elements of nervousness that George thinks is slowly dissipating.

"Yeah can't wait," George beams, "Tom says he's definitely gonna get me subbed though."

Mike pulls a face, blissfully unaware of George's newfound friendship with his rival, "Well let's just hope you don't let him."

~~~~~

They're already lining up in the tunnel when Owen catches him again. He's on his way to the front to lead the team out, clearly in a rush, but he still stops and bumps George on the shoulder. George startles at the contact, already having resigned to zoning out before the match actually begins.

"Hey," Owen pauses where his hand outstretches to touch George's waist, "Everything alright, or?"

George averts his eyes, "Yeah all good," He smiles weakly, "Good luck."

Owen looks down, he looks completely deflated and George feels awful for leaving him in the dark, but even if it had been better timing than right before their last game and in front of their whole team George still thinks he needs more time. He hasn't figured out what he's going to say yet, or how to deal with what Owen will inevitably respond with.

"Okay cool," Owen's smile is even weaker than George's, "Good luck."

The first half sways entirely in their favour and George is playing with just as much vigour as he'd shown in training the last couple of days. Half the team are jumping on him after he sets up Edgerly's try in the left corner. He misses the kick and the one after Haywood's try, too, but is easily redeemed when he converts Edgerly's second, more individual effort. France finally claw back a converted try, but when Lewington intercepts a spilled ball by the home side England are left hollering as they steam in towards the changing rooms for halftime.

His dad isn't there to praise him on his efforts, no need for him to hurry down from the stands only to have to dash back up, but Owen grabs him behind for a quick, tight hug as George saunters down the tunnel with Tom and suddenly he feels the same as if Mike had sung his praises a hundred times over. Maybe he's just high on adrenaline.

The other fly half gives them a slightly bemused look, but jogs off quickly after George flashes him a smile.

"That was fucking sick, Fordy, what the fuck?" Owen turns him around and is positively beaming, "You were so good!"

"Thanks," George grins back, "Think we've definitely got 'em now. Two of three won't be so bad."

"Nah, two of three is amazing! Especially when they're seventeens." Owen considers George for a moment, hands gravitating to his hips. George looks around nervously, but everyone seems to have wondered too far away to be paying them any attention.

"What-" George gulps, finally coming down from the adrenaline, "What are you doing?"

"Come with me," Owen tugs George to press against him, only for a second, before he grabs onto his wrist and tugs him away. There's a guest players' bathroom just opposite their changing room and Owen drags both of them inside quick enough to avoid being caught by any of the coaches. George is crowded up against the door before he has time to even blink let alone question it.

"You looked so good out there playing like that," Owen holds George's wrists firm in both hands, breathes his words close against his neck, "I don't want wait 'til after, haven't kissed you in so long."

"What?" Owen's lips are on his quickly, wet and intrusive, teeth scraping at George's lower lip. For the first time George hates it, he hates everything about it. It's almost like Owen doesn't taste right, like he tastes foreign, like someone else. He wants more than anything to love it, just like every other time, wants to want to give back everything Owen is giving him. But he can't. He just wants to get Owen away from him.

Owen's grip on his hands is tight, but George's manages to pull one free, gets it against Owen's chest to push him off with what little strength he can muster.

"What's wrong?" Owen furrows his brow, puts a hand up to George's face to try and lean in again.

"Not now," George huffs out, hand pushing more insistently on Owen's chest when their lips press again, "We'll get in trouble. Let's just go, yeah? We have to finish the match."

"Since when do you care about getting in trouble?" Owen finally pulls back far enough out of George's space, but he looks confused, a little hurt, even, and George hates himself for causing that. "What's actually wrong, Georgie? Is it what we talked about last night?"

"No, everything's fine. Let's just go. Please?" George pleads. He's not prepared to talk about this now, not when they are literally in the middle of such an important game for them.

"You know I'm obviously not going to tell anyone, don't you?" Owen pauses, looks as though he's about to speak again before he stops himself. George feels like he should be running while he has the chance, but he lets Owen gather his words, waits.

"Don't you like me?"

George doesn't think he's heard right.

"Because I thought we were cool, like, I thought it was kind of obvious that we like each other with all the... y'know? But you're being all weird today and I feel like you've been avoiding me the last few days and I don't get it." George barely tunes back into what Owen is saying long enough to catch it all.

"Are you serious?" George can't remember the last time he got outwardly angry at Owen, doesn't think he's ever even raised his voice to him. He'd been upset before, sad at his lonely predicament; now he's fuming. "'Don't I like you?' Don't you like _me?_ Don't you like me enough not to kiss other people?"

"Kiss other people? What are you on about?" Owen looks stunned, but George remembers vividly Owen saying that he remembered the whole night, remembers how much it hurt that he would remember doing that and then acting like it never happened. So either he was lying then or he's lying now. George is too pissed to care which.

"Yeah, I did see you, Faz," The name stings for him even to say -it's not one he uses a lot these days, "And it's cool, whatever, we're not together or anything and you can do what you want, but don't fucking ask me if I like you or not. Obviously I do and it fucking hurt to see you do that with her, so please don't be a dick about it now!"

"George I don't know-" He's already gone. George doesn't think he can stand to watch it anymore, doesn't think he can even stand to be in his own head when all he can see is Owen holding that girl's hand. He didn't want to say those things, didn't want that to be the way that conversation went, but he couldn't bear to hear Owen say another word, didn't want the blasé excuses.

Gareth glares at him when he slips into the changing room. So much for showing his dad that he wouldn't be subbed for Tom; this day keeps going from bad to worse. At least he can take comfort in that fact that Owen receives an even harder glare when he follows him seconds later.

"Anything to say, captain?" Gareth cocks his head expectantly at Owen.

"Uh," Owen looks down and fidgets with the hem of his jersey, for once looking nothing like the confident, arrogant leader he was usually so capable of being, "We're doing really well, lads, so just- keep it up, yeah? We want to win this one."

When they move to line up back down the tunnel George hangs back, waits until Gareth has dragged Owen to the front of the line to lead them out, and probably berate him along the way. All he wants now is to get back on the pitch with the ball in his hands, to tune everything out and forget.

"Hey," Tom nudges his shoulder as he finally starts to trudge on at the back of the group, "What was all that about with Faz?"

George looks round at him, feels his panic start to bubble more when he sees the look of concern on Tom's face. He hadn't thought he'd been that loud in is anger, but then the team were stood just across a narrow corridor the whole time and George hadn't exactly been making a conscious effort to keep his voice down. "Did you hear?"

"No," Tom looks at him even more confused, "But I left you guys hugging and all over each other and then you come in really late looking like you want to cry and he doesn't exactly look any better."

Good, George thinks bitterly.

"I thought you guys were really good friends?" Tom nudges against him again, George hadn't realised he was staring at the ground. Probably not making the best impression that he's fine. It looks forced and fake and he may as well not bother, but George looks up and smiles anyway.

"Yeah we are," He grimaces at the unconvinced look Tom gives him, "Just... I was worried because I missed those two conversions and I don't want to be subbed when my dad's come out here to watch me, so I talked to Owen. Guess I must've got more upset than I thought."

It's not a total lie. That may not be what he and Owen had been doing, but it is something he's worried about. George doesn't want his dad to see him benched, but more than that he doesn't think he can bear to be. Sitting and twiddling his thumbs while he has to watch Owen out there playing, having to listen to their confrontation going round and round in his head; it would be torture. No, he needs a ball in his hands, need to run off the energy, needs to switch off and lose himself from it.

"Well don't worry about that, you're not gonna be subbed," Tom gives him a small smile, almost sad.

"I think I definitely will be now, Gareth looked proper pissed at me and Owen for coming in late," George sighs, but manages to conjure up a teasing smile, "At least you'll get some more minutes, though. You did say you'd be coming for me."

"Nah I won't," Tom is still smiling, but George can see just how deflated he looks now, "Gareth said to me at halftime that he's not planning on using me, not unless you get injured. Can't exactly blame him, you might've missed those kicks but you're playing amazing."

"I-" George actually feels bad for him. Things with Owen suddenly feel so menial, George had been so caught up in the drama of it that he hadn't even stopped to enough to notice how his friend way feeling. "I'm sorry mate, I didn't know- he might change his mind."

"Doubt it," Tom shrugs, but grins after a moment, tapping George on the arm, "Come on, if you are gonna hog my jersey you may as well go out and win in it."

They don't win. They don't even score. It's not that they don't try, every one of them throws as much, if not more, effort into their performance as they did in the first half but it's all futile. The French side is older and bigger than them and when the first thing they do after kicking off the second half is score and convert a try it becomes obvious just how much they've exhausted them. Although France score an extra penalty, it still looks, just for a moment, that they could hold onto their lead, but it wasn't to be. Not long into the last ten minutes, the exhausted England defence lets yet another try slip past them and with an easy kick to convert it remains all square at the end.

A draw isn't so bad, it's better than a loss, but it's still disappointing. In fact, it's more than disappointing, it's crushing. George is exhausted, and bruised and second guessing every call he made in the second half and now that there's no ball in his hands, now that the only thing left to occupy his mind is shaking hands with the people who just stole their victory George finds himself caving to the emotional turmoil left after halftime. Earlier anger all retreats into the same old sadness George had resigned himself to.

He'd said things he hadn't been ready for Owen to know, exposed himself, opened himself up to rejection, to getting hurt. When the tournament had started, George had been desperate for he and Owen to grow closer again, to gain back what they'd had before he'd moved away. Maybe they're too close now, Owen knows too much about him, too much about how he feels.

Mike is waiting for him outside their changing room, George walks straight into his arms, doesn't care that his team are there to see it all.

"You played great today," Mike moves to pull away from the hug to make it as brief as the parameters of their relationship tends to allow, but George clings on tight. "George?"

George trembles with the effort of holding in the inevitable tears. The exhaustion is finally too overwhelming, the emotion of the day catching up with him now that there's no more distractions to run to.

"Georgie?" Mike manages to peel himself away from George, holds him by the shoulders. George tries to smile, but it comes out all wrong, too subjugated by the tears brimming in the corners of his eyes. "What's wrong?"

When, despite George's best efforts, one of the tears slips free, Mike pulls him by the arm, leads him away from where a few of the less distracted members of the team have started nosily peering at the scene.

"Where's your players' lounge? Do you know?" George points his dad in the general direction where he's knows he's seen the labelled door. The room is thankfully empty and Mike pulls him down to one of the sofas, puts an arm around his shoulders.

It's been a long time since George has sought comfort from his dad this way, but he has no shame in dropping his head to his dad's shoulder and letting himself cry. He feels like a child, a cliché -crying in his dad's arms over a boy. At least he can admit to himself that it's not about the match, not just because he's exhausted.

"What's wrong, Georgie? Why are you so upset over a draw, hmm? You played so well." Mike rubs his back while he weeps pathetically. He's nowhere near ready to tell his dad the truth, not ready for him to know what George only confessed for the first time the night before. All he can do is cry.

There's a knock on the door, the sound of it opening, which George is happy to ignore, keeps his head buried where it is. There's no one he'd be bothered about seeing him cry at this point -at least the tournament is over.

"I don't think this is the best time to be honest, Owen," George does look up at that. Maybe there is one person he's bothered about seeing him cry.

"Can I please talk to George?" Owen bites his lip, he looks nervous. George is glad to see he's not the only one who's a little vulnerable. It's probably not the best emotional state for them to finish their earlier conversation, but it's unavoidable and they may as well get it over with.

"Yeah," George croaks before his dad can answer for him, turns to face him with an assuring smile. "It's okay, dad, I'll see you in a bit."

"You sure?" George nods and smiles a little brighter when his dad gives him another brief hug and stands to leave. He pats Owen's shoulder on the way out and George is reminded of just what their lives used to be, their connection running deeper than just between the two of them, including their families too. They really need to sort things out between them.

"You meant that girl at the Italian party. When you said I kissed someone else." It's not a question. George is at least relieved that the lying has stopped, that Owen can admit it to him. George nods, looks down at his lap. It hurts more than he'd imagined even just hearing Owen say it.

"I didn't kiss her."

"I saw you," George still doesn't look up, can't face it, not if the lying actually isn't over.

"What did you see, Georgie?" Owen has made his way over by now, crouches down in front of George far enough below his eye level that he is forced to look at him. "Because I didn't kiss her, I swear."

"You were dancing with her and holding her hands and you put her arms around your neck like you did with me when-" George's voice cracks, "I turned away because I didn't want to see it."

Owen grabs one of the hands in his lap, strokes his thumb over George's palm, "I just danced with her, I shouldn't've even done that, it wasn't fair to you. But I promise, Georgie, I didn't kiss her."

George finally looks him in the eye, he's not sure if the way his heart palpitates a little is from shock or something else. "You really didn't kiss her?"

"No I really didn't kiss her," Owen's lips quirk upwards for a second, "I don't want to kiss anyone that's not you."

George is leaning forward before Owen's even finished, pressing their lips together. It's too public to do this, too risky that someone could walk in, but George's chest feels unclenched for the first time in too many days. And it feels right again, Owen tastes like Owen, his teeth nibble lightly at George's bottom lip, his tongue is soft and caresses George's own gently. Owen has the sense to pull away, laughs quietly when George tries to chase him backwards.

"Not here," Owen mumbles, but still leans forward for another chaste kiss, "You're still here another night aren't you? You're dad's not rushing you home?"

"Yeah," George smiles, leans in again. He's missed this.

~~~~~

They don't talk for a couple of hours when they get back to their room, too busy rediscovering each other after too many days apart. George only gets a second to speak when Owen takes aversion to just how much the marks on George's neck have faded.

"So," George gasps when Owen bites down, laps over the area, "You don't want to kiss anyone who's not me?"

Owen groans as he pull back, kisses gently where he'd just tortured, "You're never going to let me live that down are you?

"Nope," George grins, but grabs Owen before he can distract him with another attack on his neck, forces him to look at him. As much as he's enjoying himself, he wants to know more. "Did you mean it?"

"Of course I meant it," Owen smiles and places a light kiss on George's lips before settling down on his side next to George. George turns to face him, tangles their legs and fingers together.

"We are leaving tomorrow, though," George sighs sadly. It's more proof that they should only be making the most of the time they have left, but a confession like that has George reaching for more than just one last night of kisses.

"I know, but," Owen squeezes his hand, "I know there's distance between us and I don't know if it'll work, but I want to try. Like, I want to try us being, y'know?"

"I want to try," George affirms, "You're right it might not work, but I want to try if you do."

George smiles at the way Owen beams at him, rolls them so he's straddling over Owen's hips, kisses him soft and slow, meaningful.

"But you danced with a girl at a party and made me feel like shit," George beams when he pulls back, this time it's Owen left chasing the sweet torture of George's lips. George revels in the power he feels, it's new and it's welcome. "So you're gonna need to make it up me."

Owen laughs, it's hearty and it's real and George can feel it reverberate through his own body. This is how they're meant to be.

"And how exactly can I do that?" Owen is smiling. George leans down.

Maybe it won't work, maybe it'll be the best decision they've ever made. Whichever, it has to be worth a shot.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this, I haven't tried anything chaptered for a long time, so this was a new step.  
> I've loved reading all your comments, I'm thinking of writing one or two chapter sequel to this and I'd love to know what you would think of that.   
> I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I have writing!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that was more or less enjoyable enough, or at least enough that you'll stick around for more when it gets here, should be week-by-week. I do proofread although I have a tendency to just read over a mistake and not recognise it, so I apologise for any errors. Me finally posting this should be enough to kick me into gear and write more and I love to hear your thoughts in the comments section, it's always so encouraging. Even your recognition with kudos is always lovely to see.


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